


Wet Dreaming

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Cheating, Daddy Kink, Face-Sitting, Infidelity, M/M, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Keith (Voltron), Rimming, Spanking, Switching, asshole husband Sendak, mild choking, pool boy Keith, trophy husband Shiro, trophy husband au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:28:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Keith’s new job comes with all sorts of inconveniences and pitfalls— having to buy his own supplies and drive his own truck, long hours spent in the baking sun, the smell of chlorine permanently adhered to his skin. To top it off, he can onlydreamof setting foot in the pristine pool’s cool waters, even on skin-melting summer days.Luckily, there’s Shiro. Unluckily, he’s married.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful @shirofenty who gave me a wonderful prompt!!

As he sweats away under the summer sun’s bright glare, Keith has to wonder what sort of job affords someone a fucking _Roman villa_ , complete with bronze replicas of famous statues, lush lawns and topiary that require a whole team of gardeners, and an oversized pool in need of near-constant cleaning and maintenance. It’s a monster— fifteen feet deep on one end and large enough to comfortably serve a small community— and after a month on the job, Keith has a routine down pat.

He comes by the small mansion daily for quick maintenance checks to skim the pool and test the water and makes longer, in-depth visits twice a week to scrub the tiles and do chemical treatments. The owner of the whole estate is a Galra of enormous proportions, and Keith’s glad he’s never seen Sendak outside of his first day on the job. The handshake alone had been enough for Keith to peg him as an asshole, albeit the kind clever enough to use his callousness to get ahead in life.

As he skims grass clippings and dead bugs from the surface of the pool, his gaze occasionally drifts to the facade of the ostentatious Greco-Roman style mansion, up sleek Corinthian columns and above the rows of porticos. Dozens of wide windows offer him occasional glimpses of Sendak’s husband, Shiro— the kept man— as he goes about his life of quiet, secluded opulence. 

Sometimes, he spies Shiro on the villa’s long balcony, a drink in hand as he leans on the railing and watches Keith work— in gauzy, revealing outfits or sleek suits, depending on the weather. Other days, Keith only feels the weight of his stare, enough to raise the fine hairs along his nape and set some questionable thoughts running through his head.

But there’s no sign of him today. Keith doesn’t see any of the gardening staff around either, and for once he’s envious of Rolo, as it’s another scorching day in a heat wave that shows no sign of breaking any time soon. He can feel every beating ray of the sun deep in his pores, under his skin, and it’s a blessing that he doesn’t burn easily.

With a groan, Keith lifts the hem of his shirt and uses it to mop the sweat from his brow. It’s already soaked across his chest and down his back, the heather grey fabric gone dark with perspiration, and even his loose swim trunks somehow manage to chafe. Lance had painted an entirely different picture of the whole pool boy gig, and like a fool Keith had actually believed his overhyped bullshit. The reality is a little less of the promised paradise and a little more like torture, doomed to spend blistering days mere feet from cool, crisp waters that he’s not allowed to set foot in.

It’s a whole world of _look, but don’t touch_. It’s an awful lot of temptation for one man to take.

Keith is kneeling down on the sunbaked stone beside the pool, wearily fishing a snake from one of the cylindrical skimmer traps set into the concrete— a kingsnake, harmless but slippery as fuck— when he catches sight of Sendak’s husband coming down the long walk from the main house with a sleek, glass-topped tray in hand.

The man is in nothing but a silky black top left unbuttoned down to his navel, a black speedo, and a pair of flimsy sandals. His muscled, scarred thighs are left bare, those long legs moving toward him with purpose, and it’s a scenario Keith has only navigated in fuzzy, semi-delirious daydreams while he bakes under the unrelenting sun.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he gets ahold of the snake, just narrowly avoiding a panicked bite.

“Wow. Uh, how’s the pool cleaning going?”

Keith looks up at Shiro— all glorious six-foot-three of him, nothing but smooth muscle resting under scar-marked and glistening skin— with his arm still jammed down into the skimmer trap, water up to his elbow, and his hand wrapped around the head of a very frightened kingsnake.

He manages a tight smile. “ _Swimmingly_.”

It makes Shiro laugh, although his brilliant smile falters as Keith pulls the writhing snake out of the pool water. 

“Thanks for handling that,” he says as Keith walks clear over to the fence to drop the kingsnake on the other side. “And not just killing it.” 

“Only a snake,” Keith shrugs, drying off his arm on a portion of his shirt that isn’t already soaked with sweat. “No reason to.”

Shiro nods his approval, his charming smile returning in full force. “I, uh, brought you these,” he adds, holding out the tray in his hands as soon as he remembers it. “It’s a scorcher today. Thought you might like a drink.”

“Yeah, definitely. Thanks.” Keith takes the few steps to shorten the remaining distance between them. He hasn’t been this close to Shiro since his first day on the job— a brief introduction from Sendak, a warm handshake, a little wave as Keith was lead away to the pool. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I poured a little of everything. You’ve got your basic ice water here. Some blue Gatorade. A Russian River white ale— _really_ tasty. And a strawberry daiquiri that I mixed up special. Take anything you want.”

As Shiro carefully balances the tray on one hand and points to each drink in turn, Keith can’t help but stare at the diamond-clad band around his ring finger. It glints like the sun on the water, impossible to ignore.

He chugs the Gatorade— because electrolytes— and then the water in quick succession, grinning when Shiro lets out a little sound of surprise. The worst of his thirst slaked, Keith considers the last two drinks. Both are frosty cold and blissfully tempting, the sort of thing that’d require him to shirk his work and sip slow. 

He picks up the mixed strawberry drink and tries it. Sweet, sweet, _sweet_. Shiro must like his sugar. “It’s good,” he says, licking his lips.

“I may not be able to cook, but I can make a mean daiquiri,” Shiro halfway brags as he takes the beer for himself and tosses the tray onto a poolside chaise lounge.

“You can go in, if you want,” Keith says, eyeing him. He’s got Shiro pegged as in his late twenties— probably a decade younger than his husband, at least— despite the silvered hair that crowns his head. “You’re all dressed for a swim and I’m pretty much finished.”

“Oh, this?” Shiro glances down at his scant outfit, as if he might’ve forgotten that he’s in what amounts to a pair of briefs and a mostly unbuttoned dress shirt. He looks Keith right in the eye as he draws a long swig from his frosty ale, shrugs, and says, “It’s just comfortable to wear.”

“I’m sure,” Keith agrees carefully, fighting to keep his gaze from sinking lower down the older man’s chest. That bared strip of skin is too inviting, kindling an entirely different kind of thirst in him. “Especially on a _scorcher_ like this.”

A smile pulls at one corner of Shiro’s mouth. He steps in, hips swaying, and pinches the hem of Keith’s sweat-soaked shirt between his thumb and his forefinger. “You look a little _un_ comfortable, Keith. Might be too hot for this.”

Keith swallows thickly at the feel of Shiro toying with the fabric at his waist even as they stare each other in the eye. Shiro’s words are left to linger in the air between them.

“If you ever need to cool off, feel free to dive in,” he says before he finally turns to go, letting Keith’s drenched shirt slip from his loose grasp. “Even Sendak’s not mean enough to begrudge you that.”

 

* * *

 

Three more weeks crawl by, the heat as heavy and still as the doldrums, and Keith adjusts to a new routine. Maintenance that he used to finish in thirty minutes now takes an hour. His pool-scrubbing visits become a half-day affair. And it’s all because of Shiro, who brings him something icy cool every day and coaxes him into making conversation while they drink— not that Keith is complaining. 

Not when everything tastes as good as Shiro _looks_. The selection varies based on the older man’s whims— iced tea and green smoothies and fruit-infused water— but he’s quick to offer to fill any special requests, head tilted just to one side, tongue running over the fullness of his bottom lip to catch the salt left from a sip of his margarita.

_Fuck._

There’s a line between them that Shiro likes to flirt with, and it doesn’t help (or hurt) that he’s always dressed to tease, too: tops made of netting, baring so much skin he might as well go without; form-fitting tanks and loose basketball shorts that hang onto his hips for dear life; undone suit jackets with no shirt underneath. It’s a bit of a tragedy that he’s so effortlessly handsome, given that the only person around to appreciate his good looks is one lone pool boy. Keith’s never been one to care much about clothing, even if it’s designer-made and worth more than his pickup truck and bike combined, but as he lies awake in his bed and lazily pumps himself to sunlit memories of Shiro in sheer tops and low-riding joggers, he thinks he might get the appeal.

He becomes passably good at maintaining idle chatter— about his dog, his roommates, day-off plans with his mom, his hobbies— while actively fighting the carnal desperation that proximity to Shiro stokes. He gets piecemeal details about the man in return: a workout routine that starts before dawn and spans hours; a love of _How It’s Made_ and PBS cooking shows; mentions of Sendak’s late hours and frequent business trips; nothing about family at all.

And it’s just another Tuesday when Keith pulls up the long drive, keys in the code to the back of the villa, and stumbles upon Shiro in the pool. He’s doing a lazy backstroke in nothing but a pair of tight, white swim briefs. Showy.

Keith lingers just behind a replica of winged Nike and takes a few minutes to watch, willing his breaths to even into something passing for casual. The elegant classical statues that flank the length of the pool, god or otherwise, have nothing on Shiro. He’s practically a work of art himself, body perfected through a tireless commitment to himself and the time and means to fulfill it. Keith has to mask his awe as he finally approaches with his kit in hand and the long handle of the pool skimmer balanced over his shoulder.

Shiro gives him an excited little wave before splashing toward the edge of the pool, his smile dripping satisfaction. He _knows_ Keith’s routine. Knew he’d end up with an audience.

“Coming in?”

He asks it coyly, looking up at Keith from under a heavy cast of lashes— full and dark, glimmering with crystal water. Like this, Shiro has the allure of a siren or a mermaid or any other sea creature with a penchant for luring men into dangerous waters.

Keith crouches down at the pool’s edge, his mouth screwed to one side. He wants to comb his fingers through Shiro’s wet hair; he’d like to lick a stripe right up his neck, chlorine taste be damned. “I only just got here.”

“And you’re already sweating,” Shiro observes, his voice all feigned dispassion. He reaches up to thumb at the collar of Keith’s shirt, where it’s already gone damp. “The water’s fine. I promise.”

“I think I’m technically the judge of that,” Keith says as he starts fishing out his pH kit and test strips.

Shiro rolls his eyes and pushes off of the wall, diving backward into the pool’s depths, and Keith’s gaze can’t help but follow. Ripples bounces back and forth across the surface of the water, distorting Shiro’s figure as he skims along the bottom. It’s easy, the way he glides and turns, every bit of his shapely body drawn out for Keith to see. The sun gleams off of the sleek metal casing on his prosthetic, catching on every curl and extension of his right arm. It’s an advanced model— it must be, Keith thinks, to function the way it does.

Shiro’s down there a long while. Long enough that Keith starts to grow nervous.

But he crests the water with an open-mouthed gasp, prosthetic hand coming up to slick back the longer fringe of his forelock; soaking wet, his hair reads darker and greyer. It’s still a handsome color on him.

“Are you going to let me do my job sometime soon?” Keith asks, mostly amused but also legitimately concerned about how he’s supposed to function while Shiro does _that_ right in front of him. “Or do you enjoy swimming with tons of dead bugs?”

Still treading water, Shiro shrugs. “How many houses do you have left after this?”

“You’re my last stop,” Keith says, noting the power in Shiro’s shoulders as he strokes his way back to the edge of the pool. The enormous villa is so far out of the way that it only makes sense. “Always.”

The admission makes Shiro smile, more sly than he has any right to be. He plants his hands on sun-warmed slate and heaves himself up with absolute ease, all coiled and rippling muscle under drenched skin. And then he stands there, water sluicing down his chest and shapely legs, the planes of his abdomen; it drips steadily from his wet hair, clinging along sharp cheeks and full lips.

Keith stares while he grabs his towel and starts drying his hair, slowly working his way down. The plush white material wraps his neck like a fluffy mane before Shiro slips it over his broad shoulders, around his chest and under his arms, then flexes as he stretches it to dry his back. Shame starts to kick in somewhere between him smoothing the towel down the ridged muscles of his abdomen and squeezing the fabric between his dripping thighs, and Keith finally takes a deep breath and looks away as Shiro bends to dry his legs.

He can hear a faint little laugh as Shiro throws the towel over his shoulder and heads to his shaded chaise lounge. He settles down with one leg stretched out and the other bent at the knee, lounging with the aura of a big cat— comfortable in his sprawl and at home in his domain, spread out by the pool with Keith nearby. He has a tablet in one hand and a bright yellow smoothie in the other, and Keith guesses that at least some of the other frosty drinks arranged on the glass table beside Shiro are meant for him.

Keith’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and there’s one unspoken in everything Shiro does. With an extra little stretch that’s absolutely uncalled for, Keith strips off his shirt and tosses it onto a nearby chair. When he casts a glance over his shoulder at Shiro, he spies the man eyeing him just over the top of the tablet in his hands. Subtle. Straight-faced.

Hm.

Keith shucks off his loose, knee-length nylon swim trunks next, kicking them over to the chair with his shirt. The swim bottoms he wears underneath— purchased with Hunk and Lance’s enthusiastic input— are skin-tight and come down just to the tops of his thighs. The vibrantly red fabric clings to his slim hips and sticks to every curve, dangerously close to riding up his ass. It’s… not comfortable.

But as Shiro suddenly chokes on his pineapple ginger smoothie, Keith decides he can live with it.

 

* * *

 

When the dry, sweltering heat wave finally breaks, it’s with a bang and a rush of rain that seeks to make up for weeks of absence.

The storm hits all at once, just as Keith finishes rebalancing the pool’s pH, and tears the sky apart in flashes of light and peals of thunder that ring in his ears. He’s soaked through as soon as the heavy sheet of rain drops, nearly blinding in its density, and before he can even contemplate making the long run to his pickup in the driveway, Shiro appears at a nearby door. 

Keith doesn’t hesitate when the man waves him over, genuine worry plastered across his handsome features. He sidles in through the open doorway, under Shiro’s outstretched arm, and finds himself standing in a gilt foyer with awful acoustics.

Soaked and shivering and nearly naked, Keith wraps his arms tight around his ribs. The glossy marble floors are cold and slippery under his bare feet, and the cool air stirred by a row of massive ceiling fans pulls the hairs along his wet skin taut.

Shiro is quick to pull off his robe— dark and fluffy, still a little damp from his recent post-workout shower— and drape it around Keith instead, heedless that all he wears underneath is a pair of tight, luxuriously soft-looking underwear. (And a pair of fuzzy black slippers.)

Keith isn’t sure which warms him more: the cover of Shiro’s thick robe, still touched with the older man’s body heat, or the sight of him stripped down to just a pair of briefs that show the clear outline of his cock.

“Let’s get upstairs and get some clothes. I’m sure I have something you could borrow,” Shiro says, a wide hand braced gently behind Keith’s back to steer him. “Careful. I hate how slick these floors get. Ridiculously impractical,” he complains, huffing to himself. 

“Thanks,” Keith manages as Shiro guides them through another room and up a sweeping set of stairs. Rain beats heavily against the enormous windows, the sound of it enough to drown out whispers and quiet words. Thunder rumbles underneath it all, a deep note that never quite seems to break.

Shiro whistles low as they make their way down one last, long hallway. It’s dim, the skylights meant to fill the villa with natural light instead showing just a dark blur of storm clouds. “Wouldn’t want to be out driving in that.”

“Hell no,” Keith agrees, thinking of flash floods and mudslides.

The master suite is about what Keith expected— massive and beautifully furnished, complete with a wide fireplace and a walk-in closet that looks roomier than his apartment bedroom. Centered along one wall is a bed sized to fit the space. It can only be a California king, spread with silky grey sheets under a pristine white comforter. 

While Shiro starts digging through his drawers for something suitable, Keith awkwardly stares around the room. The sparse furniture is dark, sleek, and modern, seemingly out of step with the rest of the villa’s look. The windows are covered by sheer white drapes that pool onto the floor, and an array of small, potted plants sit on the sill to keep Shiro company.

On the fireplace mantle, there are pictures of Shiro and Sendak, and a bleak curiosity draws Keith in. The largest is a wedding photo, both of them in tailored tuxedos beside a cake nearly as tall as Shiro. Another has them together on some street in what looks like Greece. The next features them dressed for some formal event, Sendak’s arm hooked around his waist.

And then— _oh_. A shot of Shiro in just a slip of lingerie, draped over a black-maned lion with glassy golden eyes, his metal hand buried in its dark fur.

“Keith? Do these look like they’d— oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I forgot that was up there,” he says in a rush, reaching past Keith to flip the framed picture facedown on the mantle. The metal hand spread across Shiro’s face isn’t enough to hide the bright blush across the skin that peeks through his fingers. “We shot it in his game room. He used to like taking pictures of me with his other trophies.”

Food for thought. “Is he, uh, around?”

Shiro works his jaw side to side before settling on a half-smile. “Sendak’s currently out of state for an indeterminable length of time. That’s the best I could get out of his _personal assistant_.”

More to consider as Shiro offers him a makeshift outfit of a tiny, stretchy white tee, sweats with a drawstring waist, and star-patterned briefs; their hands brush, but neither of them pull away. The universe is offering him an opportunity on a silver platter here, answering a thousand silent poolside wishes— the forces of nature conspiring to bring them together in Shiro’s half-lit bedroom, the both of them nearly naked, an electric current akin to the storm outside arcing between the slender void between them.

“Shiro… we could— if you wanted, uh— if you’re into it, I’d— oh, fuck,” he sighs out, pushing back his damp hair in frustration.

“Keith, I thought you’d never ask,” Shiro says, lightly teasing despite the color blooming over his cheeks and across his chest.

“I’m not exactly great with words,” Keith admits as he steps in and trails his hands up the defined curves of Shiro’s biceps and wide shoulders, nervous even as he loops his arms around the older man’s neck. “But I’m pretty good at a lot else.”

“I bet,” Shiro answers, grinning into their first kiss.

It’s _perfect_ , Keith thinks, though he’d never dreamed of anything like it— dark and intimate, underscored by thunder so near that he can feel it through the soles of his bare feet. Shiro’s mouth is steady, the gentle swipes of his tongue measured; it’s some kind of balance to Keith’s sloppy desperation, the enthusiastic little nips he makes at Shiro’s bottom lip.

Steely cool fingers cup under his jaw, along his chin, guiding him to an angle that allows Shiro to deepen the kiss; his tongue slips between his teeth and runs over Keith’s pointed canines. He can feel the steady stroke of a metal thumb up and down along his windpipe, the textured black polymer fingerpad dragging sinfully slow over his skin.

Keith’s not quite sure if he’s pushing Shiro back toward the California king or if Shiro is drawing him there. Maybe it’s gravity drawing the both of them in, pulling Shiro down onto its bouncy softness and inexorably taking Keith with him. He plants a knee on the bed, just to the side of Shiro’s thigh— _Sendak’s_ bed, a voice in the back of his mind warns, but the reminder only serves to stoke the heated thrill working its way deep under his skin.

“Anything special in mind?” he asks as he settles down on Shiro’s lap and strokes his hair. It’s silk between his fingers, as fine and pale as strands of moonlight. He palms Shiro with his other hand, savoring the fullness of him, how hard he is already, before toying with the waistband of his briefs. 

Shiro bites his lip and shakes his head, shrugging helplessly. “Anything you want to do.”

He sounds _hopeful_ about it, eager to take whatever Keith is willing to give him. _Trusting_. Keith takes his time tasting his way down the length of Shiro’s neck while he considers all the things he’d like to do with him. _To_ him. Nearly two months of slow torture have given him plenty of time to mull it over.

“I’d love to eat you out,” he says as he nibbles on Shiro’s shoulder, soothing over the faint marks left on his skin with a wet lick.

There’s a hesitant beat of silence that the heavy rain fills. Shiro’s brows lift a fraction, his lips parting in a look of surprise that’s highlighted by the white flash of lightning outside.

“Too much?” Keith asks, ready to suggest something— _anything_ — else in the hopes of pleasing Shiro.

“No! No, no, I’d like that a lot, really. It’s just— it’s been a while.” He clears his throat. “Usually it’s just wham, bam, Sendak’s snoring. Y’know.” He snaps his fingers. “Like that.” 

What a tremendous fucking waste. “He really doesn’t deserve you.”

The blush across Shiro’s cheeks deepens, and after mustering the nerve to look Keith in the eye again, he makes a request. “Kiss me?”

Keith happily obliges. In the span of five minutes, it’s clear that Shiro’s _ached_ for this— affection, comfort, the tender touch of another person— and Keith knows that solitary yearning well. He’s overwhelmed by the barest touch, whispering his gratitude as if Keith is personally rearranging the heavens for him. His breaths stutter and stop from a brief nuzzle along his sternum; he moans obscenely just from the glide of a hand down his inner thigh. When Keith presses a kiss to Shiro’s wrist and tells him he’s beautiful, the man looks like he might actually cry. _It’s been a while_ sits at the back of his mind, and he wonders just how long it’s been since Shiro’s been loved slow, teased and taken apart, an ounce of thought given to his pleasure.  

Keith’s commitment to putting Shiro first might as well be etched in stone, now.

It’s only a little awkward as he lays back and maneuvers Shiro into settling over him just right— reversed with his bent knees resting on either side of Keith’s chest, ass bared inches in front of his face, only the curve of his upper back and wide shoulders visible at this angle. Keith’s long fingers skim up the backs of the thighs he’s dreamt about having his head between for _weeks_ , slowing only to give the taut muscle an appreciative squeeze. His palms trace the ample curve of Shiro’s shapely cheeks and gently spreads them apart.

Kisses first, soft and wet. Shiro jumps at the first touch of his tongue, tip trailing light around his rim, his sharp gasp audible even over the raging storm outside. Keith slides a hand forward to hold onto Shiro’s hip, pulling him closer as he licks a long, hot-breathed trail between his cheeks. All of his hungry mouthing eventually earns him a steady rock from Shiro, accompanied by a soft train of murmurs— his name, mostly, and encouraging pleas for more. He grins against Shiro’s skin at every particularly loud keen, and after kneading at the fullness along his thighs, Keith chances a little slap that’s just hard enough to make his ass quiver.

Shiro _moans_ , low and unmistakably pleased, and Keith spanks him again.

“Harder,” Shiro gasps after the next one, a wretched sound escaping him when Keith delivers, pairing the smack with a slide of his tongue that dips just past Shiro’s rim. 

Under his palm, Keith can feel the rising warmth of reddened flesh. He gives the firm swell of Shiro’s ass a gentle squeeze, soothing, and spends the next few minutes teasing his saliva-slicked hole.

Keith can pinpoint _exactly_ when Shiro loses himself in it. Aluminum and carbon fiber fingers suddenly wind into his hair, gripping tight and tugging his head up from the stacked pillows under him, trying to urge him deeper. Shiro’s little rocking motions become an insistent roll of his hips as he eases back onto Keith’s face, spine arched as he finds the perfect angle.

The sensory flood is enough to leave him heady. Keith drowns in the press of Shiro’s thighs around him, his solid weight bearing down in a rhythm that grows more frantic by the second. The slide of Shiro’s soft, puckered skin over and around his tongue. The slow drag of Shiro’s heavy cock over his chest, right between his pecs, as he rolls his hips and rides against Keith’s mouth. The steady throb of his own arousal, laying untouched now that Shiro’s free hand is buried in his hair.

Blindly, he runs his hands up Shiro’s sides, desperate to feel the body twisting above him, before settling them in a bracket around his hips. Keith gives him another good spank— this time on the other cheek— and then holds on tight as Shiro grinds down onto his face and comes across his chest with a strangled cry.

Keith swallows down a deep breath as Shiro shakily lifts himself up and haphazardly flops onto the bed beside him, head somewhere down by Keith’s thighs. His own cock sits hard and achingly heavy against his belly, and Keith belatedly realizes he’d forgotten to touch himself at all. It’s not a terrible loss, though. He thinks that he might just pop from the sight of Shiro alone— stretched out beside him, still trembling from his orgasm, skin bright with the glisten of sweat and sporting a whole-body flush.

He can feel the warm, slow trickle of Shiro’s come down his chest as he sits up, the beginnings of smug satisfaction stirring inside of him. “Didn’t do too bad, did I?”

Shiro groans out his contentment, lifting his head just enough to eye Keith. There’s mixed praise and accusation when he says, “You made me see stars.”

“I’ll give you a whole damn galaxy of them,” he promises while he clambers on top of Shiro, who huffs at the sudden weight and then breathes out a laugh as Keith kisses a spotted trail down his neck.

“How am I supposed to return the favor?” Shiro asks as he reaches down between them to drag his metal knuckles along the underside of Keith’s dick, smiling sweetly when he shudders. 

It’s bliss that could be his undoing. And it would be so, _so_ easy to let Shiro take the reins, to let him get him off like his body is begging for, but…

Gently, Keith reaches low and gathers Shiro’s hand in his own. He slowly winds his fingers through dextrous prosthetic digits and then draws Shiro’s arm up, over his head, pinning his hand there while he kisses him deep. He lingers close even after the kiss breaks, an ache growing in him at the thought of pulling himself even a hair further from Shiro. “I want to take care of you tonight, like you deserve.”

Shiro’s breath hitches in his throat; Keith presses his lips to where it’s caught. He wants to give Shiro everything that’s been lacking; wants to show him everything he can do that Sendak won’t, for lack of care or desire. And he’s hopelessly eager to leave a mark in Shiro’s memories, in his life.

“How could I say no to that?” Shiro asks after another moment, smiling crookedly. There’s still a little bit of daze behind his eyes— those stars, maybe, still shooting through.

Keith skids his palm up Shiro’s flat belly, over the ridge of his ribcage, and squeezes the bulge of his left pec. It’s too much to cup in just one hand, and a thrill like a lightning-strike courses right to his dick as Shiro whimpers from just a glancing brush of his thumb over a dark nipple. 

He slips an oiled finger into Shiro first, finding his prostate and teasing it agonizingly slow while he stretches him out, swallowing up every murmur he makes. 

Shiro’s begging by the time Keith presses the dark head of his cock into his slick, blushing hole, easing in so slow that Shiro tosses his head for want of it. But Keith doesn’t make him wait too long; _can’t_ , because he’s falling apart at the seams the moment he’s snug inside Shiro’s heat, deep enough to imagine he can feel the thundering beat of Shiro’s heart and every shift of muscle around him as he takes his hefty dick in hand and rubs gently at a spot under the delicate curve of its head. 

Keith starts out slow, drawing out and pushing back in only halfway, still working Shiro loose as strong legs wrap around his midsection, embracing him tight. And the man under him is unusually quiet through it, his dark, full lashes fluttering as he steadies himself with shallow breaths that match the languid pace Keith sets. That all changes when Keith gives him every inch, bottoming out in full strokes that leave Shiro open-mouthed and writhing, keening noises the only sound to escape him. 

Shiro curls a hand around the back of his neck and keeps it there, holding him close and steady. Keith can feel his grip tense around the column of his spine as the slow roll of his hips becomes something urgent, nails scraping lightly into his skin. It speaks to something deep in Keith, being held like this— their noses hovering inches apart, stares locked, the squeeze at his nape a strange and perfect comfort.

It’s a fight to gather up the shredded tatters of his self-control and bind them into something that can last the next five, ten, fifteen minutes. However long it takes to leave Shiro melted into the plush expanse of the bed, well-fucked and utterly spent. His eyes slip shut as he slows just enough to draw back down from the brink. It’s too much, almost— the sight of Shiro under him, the firm heat around his cock, the feel of legs hooked around his back and a fist curled in his sweaty, rain-doused hair— but he manages. Barely. 

“Oh, fuck,” Shiro breathes under him, bucking into the lazy roll of his hips. His free hand roves up and across Keith’s chest, down his flexing stomach, settles light over Keith’s hand where it sits wrapped around his cock. “Mn, daddy, please—” 

Immediately, Shiro draws up his prosthetic hand to cover his face, though slivers of his embarrassed blush still manage to peek through. “Oh, god, I didn’t— f-force of habit. I’m so— ah! _Fuck_ — sorry,” he gasps out in between the determined thrusts that make his whole body jolt.

“I don’t mind it, Shiro,” Keith purrs in his ear, enjoying the little shudder that rolls through him. There’s a first time for everything— including fucking a married man— and while he’d probably have balked if it came from anyone else, he’s getting the feeling that absolutely anything Shiro does would strike the right kind of chord in him. “Call me whatever you want. Or I can call _you_ daddy, if you want.”

Shiro’s smile curls up slow, under a deepening blush that sits pretty on his skin. He turns his head aside and doesn’t quite answer. Being plowed into the mattress he shares with his asshole husband wasn’t enough to make him shy, but _this_ is.

“M-more, Keith,” he encourages after a few moments lapse, chin lifted and head tilted back, silver hair tousled. Even a bitten lip isn’t enough to stifle his moan when Keith digs his hands deep into the down of the white comforter and throws his whole body into one thrust, and a deliriously pleased laugh bubbles out of him after. “Keith! Oh, _Keith_.”

Hearing his name _like that_ certainly works— brought low and husky with need, a pitch he’s never heard out of the man before. They tumble past some point of no return, and Keith knows there isn’t a hope of reining himself back in. Not while Shiro is murmuring his name like a litany and praising him to high heaven; certainly not while he marvels at the flash of yellow across Keith’s eyes and clumsily caresses his cheek, a thumb gently tugging at his snarl to reveal the fangs tucked behind it.

“Go ahead, Keith,” Shiro spurs, storm-grey eyes fixed on his, that unspoken challenge resting somewhere behind them. “Let go.”

It’s a command he’s hungry to obey. A second wind of stamina and a flare of Galra strength have him gripping onto the bed with both hands as he pounds into Shiro with frantic, bruising intensity.

Shiro’s metal hand falls to his side to twist in the fabric of the comforter, holding fast to it and to him as Keith heaves himself into every last thrust, hot blood singing in his ears. He could swear he hears the pop of ripped seams somewhere under the sound of the storm and his own heavy breaths— it’s Shiro, wrenching apart the silky fabric with one hand as Keith pushes them both to the verge of a climax weeks in the making.

Shiro cries out, whole body tensed as he arches into Keith, the powerful arm attached to the hand around his nape pulling him down for a messy kiss that knocks their teeth together. Keith can feel his contented sigh as the tension slips out of him with his release. He draws out of Shiro and barely gets his hand around himself before he’s shooting across his belly, stripes of his come mixing with the sticky trails Shiro left on himself.

He collapses on top of the larger man without a word, only barely cognizant of the sweaty, tacky mess sandwiched between their skin. He’s bone-tired. _Boned_ tired. If he had the strength, he’d say it out loud. Shiro loves puns.

It’s with enormous effort he eventually braces a hand on the mattress and tries to push himself up, mentally preparing to drag himself to the bathroom. A shower would be great, but he’ll settle for a quick wipe-down before he stumbles down to the drive. He’ll have to check the weather— and it’s only then Keith remembers he left his phone sitting with his shirt and shorts, piled on a sunchair by the pool, probably well beyond saving now— and see if the roads are navigable. Honestly, Shiro seems like the type that’ll call him a lift anyway, even all the way out here—

A hand spanned across his back keeps him from budging. “That storm’s not going anywhere, and neither should you.”

Keith happily resigns himself to it, laying his cheek against Shiro’s chest and facing one of the windows to watch the steady stream of the downpour. “I appreciate the hospitality.”

He snakes his hand up to brush through Shiro’s hair but ends up limply palming his face instead. It gets him a snort, and under his palm Keith can feel his cheek move with a smile. “I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow, too,” Shiro promises, kissing at the heel of his hand.

They drowse together to the sound of the rain, and as slumber draws near, Keith rolls off of Shiro and finds himself quickly spooned. It’s warm. Comfortable. Desirably close in a way Keith’s never seen much appeal in before.

“Keith…" 

He grunts in response, hoping to every deity imaginable that Shiro isn’t about to ask for another round so soon.

“Can you swim?” Shiro whispers.

His eyes flutter open again. Outside, through the rain and the dark, he can just make out the rustle of palm trees’ fronds and the sway of the hanging plants on the balcony. “Not really,” he admits, feeling a tiny sigh of understanding from Shiro.

Between his father’s desert shack and the busy work schedule of his mother and uncles, time and opportunity had never quite aligned. Braving the shrieking crowds of kids at the community pool to practice by himself had never quite seemed worth it, either.

“I could teach you.” Shiro brushes his hand up the back of Keith’s neck, lifting his hair aside, and presses a kiss to his damp nape. “You spend so much time taking care of that pool. You really ought to get to enjoy it.”

It’s not an unappealing thought, and he makes a good point. “Sounds like an excuse for pool sex,” he teases, unsurprised when no denial comes. “But yeah. I’d like that.” 

He can feel Shiro’s smile against his skin.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Shiro makes for a surprisingly effective— if painfully distracting— teacher.

The swim lessons happen over the course of weeks, after the housekeepers and yard staff have left and the villa is all theirs. Throughout, Shiro is patient and reassuring, confident in Keith’s ability to not drown himself— though Keith has his own misgivings. But the silky glide of his touch under the water is… not conducive to learning. Neither is the feel of warm breath over his wet skin as Shiro leans in close to give him advice, nosing into Keith’s soaked hair and running his thumb along the band of his tight swimsuit.

Somehow, though, he manages to muddle through. By the time Shiro invites him over for a sunny Saturday when all of the villa staff are off, Keith is fully capable of treading water and inelegantly splashing himself forward in a mix between a dog paddle and a breaststroke.

“Good job, Keith!” Shiro says, lifting his hands out of the water for a little clap. His genuine pride in Keith’s rhythmic flailing brings a blush to the younger man’s cheeks. “You pass!” 

As he swims toward Shiro, Keith bats away one of the many inflatable toys floating across the surface of the water. They’d fulfilled their purpose of providing options for Keith to cling to as he learned to float and kick, and now they just litter the pool. It had been less embarrassing than wearing water wings, sure, but there still wasn’t a lot of dignity in clinging to a blow-up orca while his illicit lover coached him.

“So,” Keith drawls, “what do I get?”

“For passing?” A mischievous smile curls up slow over Shiro’s lips. Without another word, he slips straight down under the water.

Keith can only see the distorted impression of his form as Shiro glides in close, hovering near the kicking tread of his legs. Anticipation thrums in his veins as he closes his eyes and focuses on keeping his chin above the water. 

The smoothness of Shiro’s prosthetic hand trails slow up the back of one of his knees, fingers curling; his other hand squeezes at Keith’s thigh, thumb pressing hard against the muscle along the inside of his leg. His touch roves up, agonizingly slow as he pointedly neglects Keith’s dick as it strains against the silky little runway swimsuit Shiro bought him with Sendak’s money. There’s a sudden burst of bubbles along the surface as Shiro’s open mouth meets his stomach, teeth scraping gently across taut skin as he slowly works his way up. His hand slides around to Keith’s back and splays there to hold him steady as the solid wetness of his tongue flicks out over one of his nipples.

Keith is still arched helplessly against Shiro when the older man finally pops out of the water and takes a deep breath, waiting for more. He flips his wet hair back and asks, “Is that it?”

“So impatient,” Shiro teases. He slots a thick thigh between Keith’s legs as he treads, holding it there just long enough for Keith to manage a few seconds of messy rutting against him. “Sendak’s out of town til Thursday. I paid everyone to go home for the weekend. There’s no rush, Keith. _We have time_.”

A needy groan escapes him as Shiro smirks and pushes himself away, eyes on Keith as he does a lazy backstroke toward the other side of the pool. Even the coolness of the water isn’t enough to slake the wanting heat between Keith’s legs or the aching tightness in his clingy swim briefs. With wildly splashy strokes, he pursues Shiro; every kick tugs the wet fabric across the front of his groin, not letting him forget how hard he is for even a second. 

“Shiro!” 

“Polo,” he calls back with a trailing laugh before sinking under again, out of sight.

Keith throws his head back and growls low in his throat, frustrated by need and the growing weariness in his arms and legs. He’d reach down and palm himself if it didn’t take all four of his limbs flailing in sync just to keep himself from sinking.

He doesn’t hear Shiro surface, but he does catch the quiet humming of the theme from _Jaws_ behind him. When Keith splashes and turns, he finds Shiro parting the rippling waters with smooth strokes of his powerful arms, as sinuous and sleek as any shark.

“You gonna eat me?” Keith asks, lifting his head as the water laps at his jaw.

Shiro dips down until just his eyes are above the water— grey and hunting and fixed on Keith so intently that it sends a shiver slithering down his spine. A little flurry of bubbles billows up as he exhales, considering. “If that’s what you’d like.”

Keith stares at the wet, shapely lips hovering just above the water line. “Devour me, please.”

Shiro is strong enough to haul him along as he swims them both to the edge of the pool, all imported white-and-gold marbled tile that Keith knows well. He can feel it against his back, cool and sleek as he’s loosely pinned in place.

“Whoever cleans your pool does a great job,” Keith says as Shiro looms against him. “No scaling, no calcium deposits. Look at that waterline. It’s immaculate.”

“He’s fantastic,” Shiro agrees, “and I wouldn’t fuck you against anything less.” 

Keith’s smile slips. “Wait. In the pool? For real?”

“Yes?” The faintest of creases forms between his brows. “Why?”

“What if I start to sink?” 

“You won’t sink, Keith. I’m literally right here.” In case his reassurance isn’t enough, Shiro stretches out his prosthetic arm and snatches a toy drifting nearby. “Here, hold onto this,” he says, passing him a cheap pool noodle.

“You’re going to fuck me as I cling to a pool noodle?”

“Whether you use the noodle or not is entirely up to you. Either way, you’re not going to sink.” With that, Shiro presses Keith into the tiled wall with a wide hand against his ribs and lowers himself down under the rippling surface.

Keith does end up throwing his arms over the noodle and holding onto it for some faint support. Hell, he _needs_ it when Shiro’s hands glide down his sides and catch on his fancy black and red briefs, fingers curling in the waistband and tugging them halfway down his thighs.

And once freed from the cloth restraint, Keith feels a whole new sense of anticipation that nearly leaves him listing in the water. It’s briefly satisfied when wet lips slip smoothly around him, half of his cock cradled on the slick heat of Shiro’s tongue; but it returns twofold when Shiro draws away just as quickly, darting back up for air.

“Shiro, please.” Keith licks his lips as his head lolls back against the edge of the pool. 

“Please what?” Shiro presses the length of his body against Keith and god, it’s _good_. So much everywhere at once, firm as he squishes Keith flat against unyielding stone. Shiro’s skin is slippery heaven against the hardness of Keith’s dick as it’s sandwiched between them. 

“ _Me_ ,” Keith whines, his hips bucking forward into the carved plane of Shiro’s abdomen. It’s welcome pressure, but it lacks the friction he desires— hard and dragging, quick enough to get off and go again and again. He can feel the firm bulge in Shiro’s swimsuit rub up his thigh and against his hip, and his nails dig into the foam of the pool noodle of their own accord. “Shiro, Shiro…”

The crush of Shiro’s body is mind-melting, but Keith would rather feel it while being fucked into the ground. Begging for it rarely works— at least not in a timely manner, as Shiro likes to go his own pace when he’s leading things— but Keith knows a means of encouraging him along. He slips one hand from the pool noodle and slides it between them, dragging over Shiro’s chest until he finds the peak of a sensitive nipple. They’re a tender weakness for Shiro, and Keith exploits it with soft pinches and quick little circles of his thumb that make the other man’s breaths shake.

“Tease,” Shiro accuses as he slides his cheek against Keith’s, the softest little mewl trailing out after as Keith tweaks his nipple harder and grinds eagerly against him. 

Keith grunts as Shiro suddenly heaves him up and out of the pool, almost one-armed, and sets him on the sun-warmed slate. He barely has time to get his hands braced behind him before Shiro is tugging his swimsuit the rest of the way down his thighs, his calves; he leaves it dangling carelessly from one of Keith’s slender ankles.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he praises as Shiro drags his hips right to the edge and draws the heat of his mouth over his soaked skin, starting from the back of Keith’s knee and traveling all along his inner thigh.

Shiro’s hands curl around his legs and hold them aloft, iron grip digging into Keith’s lean muscle. His nose brushes against the underside of Keith’s dripping cock, the softness of his ballsack; his lips trace their way down, painfully slow and teasing before finally sealing his mouth flush over Keith’s ass, tongue prying him open. 

It’s a relief, or at least the start of it. Keith wriggles his hips a little closer and reaches down to wrap his hand around himself—

And finds one of his legs unceremoniously dropped into the pool so that Shiro can flick his hand away. “Shiro…”

Shiro’s too busy being tongue deep in him to respond, but he stretches his free hand up to splay it over Keith’s middle, thumbing against the ridge of his hipbone while he eats him out. It feels good but not _enough_ — not even with Shiro tongue-fucking him.

So Keith covers his face with his hands and exhales in a low, groaning scream. Not loud, but petulant enough that Shiro hears it and starts laughing.

“Okay, okay.” With a grunt, Shiro plants his hands on either side of Keith’s hips and hauls himself out of the pool— a drenched god, broad enough to blot out the sun as he crawls over the smaller man, chasing him as he scoots back across the stone to make room. Water sloughs off of him and drips down onto Keith, fresh and cool on his fevered skin.

Keith runs his hands up Shiro’s sides as the man reaches past him for a tiny bottle set beside a nearby chair leg. He takes moments to appreciate just how much thick, dense muscle resides there, shifting and flexing under his fingertips. Hungry for more, his hands glide up and around to palm Shiro’s chest, pinching at the nubs of nipples already drawn to a rise. "Nice planning."

Shiro grins. The lube he slicks on his fingers and works around Keith’s entrance is sun-warmed, and he easily fits in one, two, then three fingers. The hunting curl of his digits makes Keith wild, impatient for something bigger to split him wide; he counts his blessings when Shiro lets him get a hand around the sorely aching length of his cock and pull off a few quick strokes.

But then those oiled fingers find his wrist and tug it high, up above his head, pinned to the stonework. The dark slate is comfortably warm underneath him, though his back and hips’ll be bruised when Shiro’s done— if Keith has any say, at least.

“C’mon, daddy,” he teases as Shiro draws back just enough to line himself up and testingly press the tip of his dick against him, making the older man’s cheeks flush dark. Keith writhes shamelessly to encourage him into speeding things up. “Fuck me already.”

“The more you say that, the slower I go,” Shiro says, nearly sing-song as he reminds Keith how he likes to take his time when they have the luxury of it. For emphasis, he starts dragging his cock up and down Keith’s ass, brushing over his hole so casually it could make Keith carve tracks in the slate with his nails.

“Please, Shiro,” he groans, desperate to touch himself or be touched, aching for some kind of satisfaction. “You’re killing me.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” Shiro teases as he leans over Keith and kisses him, tasting faintly of pool water, coconut, pineapple, gin. He balances all of his upper body’s weight onto one thick, strong arm so he can reach his metal hand down to guide himself into Keith.

It’s perfect agony, stretched open by the inching slide of Shiro’s width— and it’ll be better once he finally starts fucking him in earnest. Keith bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to blanche as he’s slowly impaled; when Shiro bottoms out, he lets it slip free between his teeth and feels a rush of returning blood that must leave the flesh plump and reddened.

Shiro lowers himself down to suck gently at his lip before taking his whole mouth in a sweet, slow kiss. And then he rolls his hips, dragging out of Keith before sinking back in, the return requiring a little extra effort to push as deeply into Keith’s tightness again. And it takes so little out of Shiro to do it— Keith loves that, how much strength Shiro carries in his back, his thighs, his _arms_. How easily he can lift him up or hold him down, how all Shiro has to do is work his hips insistently and Keith’s body falls open for him.

“Yes,” he grunts out in between thrusts that have his back scraping across the stone that lines the pool. “Oh, fuck! Shiro, Shiro, _Shiro!_ ”

The easiest thing to call out, the first word on his mind lately— _Shiro_.

Keith’s jaw slips slack as Shiro closes his metal fist around his flushed cock and works him with confident, fluid strokes that have him on the verge of coming in seconds. He grabs onto Shiro’s shoulders and digs his sharp nails into the solid muscle there, leveraging against him to lift and angle his hips a bit higher.

Shiro’s voice is lilting and breathy against his ear as he chides, “Ah, ah, ah,” and abruptly squeezes tight at the base of Keith’s cock with just two fingers. It cuts the stirrings of his orgasm short so swiftly he keens and scratches sharp down Shiro’s biceps. “Not yet.”

“ _F_ uck,” Keith gasps, dragging out the first letter. All that pent up energy with nowhere to go, his dick a sensitive mess of leaking precum and desperate wanting. There are the beginnings of tears at the corners of his eyes, and Shiro kisses them away with loving attention.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he says in Keith’s ear, all husky reassurance as he loosens up, hand sliding down to cup at his balls and tease at the stretched edge of his rim.

“Shiro…” He’s nearly panting too hard to whine as Shiro starts stroking him anew, slowly coaxing Keith back toward the climax he’s been denying him at every turn. 

“This time,” Shiro promises with a tender bite along his jaw.

Keith moans, relieved, and runs his hands down over Shiro’s slick chest to feel his heat, his heaving breaths, his wild heartbeat— and under _all that muscle_ , quivering from the prolonged strain of holding himself up as he fucks Keith. He rolls one of Shiro’s nipples between his thumb and forefinger, satisfied when it makes the man’s back arch with a little shudder. Meanwhile, Keith’s other hand roves higher, settling at the base of Shiro’s throat in a loose hold.

It’s something Shiro enjoys in small measures, and Keith can feel the excitement in the extra buck of his hips, the quickening pace of that prosthetic hand around him, all of it almost enough to leave Keith’s mind a blissful blank. He runs his thumb up the column of cord and muscle under Shiro’s skin, where panted breaths pass. Gently— so gently, even as he’s jolted from successive thrusts that leave him rolling on waves of pleasure— Keith squeezes, cutting Shiro’s air with a slow, incremental press. Just enough that Shiro’s lush eyelashes flutter and his mouth opens wide in a greedy, stifled gasp.

It bring them to a sudden and overwhelming end together, Shiro’s tight control falling to shambles as he hits deep in Keith and holds there, thighs trembling as he comes. The frantic rhythm of his metallic hand doesn’t let up, and that along with the heavy fullness pressing along Keith’s insides, firm and unyielding against his prostate, is more than enough to have Keith’s cock jumping as he comes so hard it feels like his soul might be forced out of his body and into the astral plane.

So long deferred, it hits with an intensity that makes his toes curl tight and his whole body bow. And though it lingers on in a golden haze of satisfaction and pleasure that warms him all the way to his fingertips, it also leaves Keith utterly spent and exhausted. It’s not like he lacks for stamina— not in the least— but no one has ever tested him like Shiro does. 

They laze together in the sun for another hour, until the stone grows too hot and they’re forced to slip back into the pool to cool off. And as he drifts in a pool inflatable that looks like an oversized donut while Shiro does his laps, Keith thinks that he could really get used to more days like this. 

* * *

 Summer fades into fall and their routine takes shape. When Sendak is around— which is blessedly rare, no more than a week out of every month— they steer clear of each other. No drinks, no talks by the pool, no evenings spent eating take-out over the kitchen counter with Shiro. No stolen kisses. No tasting Shiro’s skin after a workout. No strong hands around his waist, lifting him onto the patio table so he can wrap his legs around Shiro—

And the sudden gulf between them always leaves Keith a little dejected, lonely despite still being on the same property. But it works. Shiro’s default state is to keep to himself, avoiding even the groundskeepers and what few members of the house staff allowed into his wing of the villa— that he seemingly pays no mind to the guy cleaning the pool is only to be expected. Sendak never notices anything amiss, and every sneer he directs at Keith is solely based on personal disdain for someone he considers beneath him. 

Really, Sendak doesn’t treat Shiro much differently from the pool, the statues, the rich gardens, the lavish villa itself— something desirable to have for his own purposes, something lovely to keep tucked away for his own private enjoyment. And like all of those things, Sendak is paying for someone else to properly take care of Shiro when he can’t be bothered to put in the effort to do it himself.

He just doesn’t know it yet.

Sendak takes what he wants from Shiro and then leaves again, for work or one of his other estates or another “business trip.” Keith waits, and once Sendak is gone, he’s there to give Shiro what he needs: touch, attention, sex… and friendship, intimacy, someone to confide in.

In all that time there’s only one truly harrowing experience: the distant slam of a door on a night when no one— not even the house staff— is meant to be around. They’re lucky Keith only had Shiro bent over the kitchen counter, both of them still mostly clothed. He’s hurriedly pushed inside a pantry, pants still undone, and has to snuff his own breaths with the cover of a hand as Sendak’s heavy steps cross through the expansive and open kitchen.

His voice alone activates Keith’s fight-or-flight instincts, although he’s leaning a solid eighty-percent toward _fight_. Surely the adrenaline still hot in his veins isn’t helping. Keith’s teeth grind together as Sendak tells Shiro he’ll need to buy a new suit for an upcoming business dinner before rattling off the names of everyone who will be there; when Shiro makes a comment about being treated like a show pony trotted out from time to time, Sendak only laughs and continues toward the bedroom stairs.

It’s quiet and dark when Keith lets himself out and quietly creeps through the kitchen and down to the drive, using the security passcode Shiro gave him to bypass the alarm. No light is on in Shiro’s bedroom when he leaves, and the memory of it keeps Keith awake as he flops into his tiny twin bed back in the apartment he shares with two roommates to make rent. 

Come October, Keith’s surprised to learn he’s being kept on year-round. Sendak doesn’t like the look of the pool covered, and even unused it needs to appear spotless and enviable. Not that Keith minds it— being paid well to do some minimal upkeep and then spend half his evenings with Shiro isn’t a bad deal at all.

He’s even more surprised when Shiro actually takes him out for his birthday, to a closed track on a desert stretch that goes for miles in every direction. There’s a hangar with small planes and civilian hovercraft, and in its own private garage is Shiro’s hoverbike. It’s a powerful model, enormous but lean, build for blistering speed and incredible thrust. It’s worlds more advanced than Keith’s own bike, purchased from a grocery store parking lot where it had been going to rust for over a month.

“Sendak doesn’t know I have this,” Shiro says proudly as he straddles the seat, legs stretched out on either side. He trails his touch over the handlebars with infinite love and longing; it pulls at Keith’s heartstrings. He touches a finger to his lips. “So it’s our secret.” 

Keith rolls his eyes as he throws a leg over the bike and slides up behind Shiro. “Sure hope I can keep a secret from your husband,” he snorts as he loops his arms around the man’s middle. “Take me around. I want to see how fast this thing can go.”

“I can do that,” Shiro laughs. After fitting on his helmet and checking Keith’s, he runs his fingers along the chassis’ controls and it hums to life, lifting just a foot and a half off of the ground.

He _can_. Keith is forcefully reminded of Shiro’s brief stint in the air force as an ace pilot downed just a year into his career, bright and tragic. A shooting star. The accident had become a blight on Shiro’s life, from what little he spoke of it; the call of pilot error had been hotly contested, but stood.

And Keith can’t see how. Shiro leans into every curve with hair-raising precision, unfazed as their speed tops out at a heart-pounding four-hundred-thirty miles per hour; he veers off the track to make jumps over boulders and narrow ravines, his laugh reverberating through the comm in Keith’s helmet as he squeezes even tighter around his waist. It feels as though they could get lift-off at any moment and start climbing into the air, aloft through sheer determination and Shiro’s breathtaking skill.

It takes time for Keith to register when they’ve circled back around and come to a stop. The adrenaline is something else, more intense than anything he’s gotten out of a fistfight or speeding through the desert on empty nighttime streets— nearly _arousing_ , though clinging to the broadness of Shiro’s back the whole time probably played some part in that. His legs wobble as he slips from Shiro’s hoverbike, and a pair of strong arms hooks under his own to help hold him steady.

“Was it good?”

“ _Holy shit,_ yes,” Keith answers, still tingling with the thrill of it. He flexes his hands to work some of the tremble out of his fingers. Almost reflexively, he turns and cups his hands around Shiro’s head to pull him in for an urgent kiss. Their teeth knock from his excited jitters, but it takes the edge off.

Shiro laughs as they part. “Did it make you kinda horny too?”

“Absolutely! Here, feel my dick,” he says, grabbing Shiro’s hand and tugging it to the half-hard bulge resting in his jeans. “That was _so_ good, Shiro. I’m… wow.”

Shiro looks him down, lingering on where his hand gently cups Keith, and winks. With his hair tousled from his helmet, clad in his leather jacket and riding gloves, Keith thinks it may just be the hottest the man has ever been. Shiro gives him a little squeeze and says, “I’ll take care of this later.” 

“How?” His voice is raspy. He scrapes his blunted nails down the fitted leather of Shiro’s jacket and wishes he could have the body underneath here and now. On the ground, maybe, laid out on the spread of the silk-lined leather that feels so fine to the touch.

“Birthday boy’s choice,” Shiro says sweetly, leaning down to peck him on the nose. “But first,” he says as he snugly fits Keith’s helmet back over his head, “it’s your turn to pilot.”

Keith draws in a deep breath that fills up his chest and draws him up high. His dick twitches as Shiro leans temptingly against the bike with one leg cocked, looking like a casual pinup. “Me?”

“I’ve seen enough of your videos to know you can do it,” Shiro shrugs. “Figured a speed demon like you might enjoy this.”

He’s right. He’s _so_ right. Keith delights in the feel of the behemoth hoverbike under him, purring with ultraviolet-tinged energy. Even better is the sensation of Shiro against his back, curved around him, hands fitting snug against his hips.

And the voice that feeds in through his helmet is nothing but calm reassurance and support. “You’ve got this, Keith. Just take it slow to start.”

He does, getting a feel for the controls as he steers around the first turns before taking it out on a straightaway to open it up. As he pushes the speedometer, Keith can feel the tight squeeze around his waist, the press of Shiro’s inner thighs around his legs. Shiro leans with him around the curves, his reflexes in time with Keith’s own, and eggs him on as they approach small obstacles and opportunities to jump.

Keith has no idea how much time has passed by the time he pulls them back up to the hangar lot, but the sun is hanging low. As he pulls off his helmet, it hits Keith just how grossly sweaty he is, how hungry the pit of his stomach has become. The chill fall air curling against the dampness along his nape and brow leaves him shuddering.

“Shit, Keith! You’re _amazing!”_ Shiro exclaims, arms waving wildly as he highlights all of his favorite moments from the ride. “Great instincts, too. I’ll have to bring you out here more often.”

“I’d like that,” Keith says, and he can’t help but laugh after. He still feels lighter than air as he helps Shiro walk the hovering bike back to the garage, a giddiness buoying his whole body on the ride back toward town.

Keith convinces him to stop at a McDonald’s they pass on the way, though it’s far from the fancy take-out Shiro had planned on picking up from an upscale Italian place in town. The only payment that Shiro requires is that he be hand-fed french fries while he drives. He even licks the salt and fry oil from Keith’s fingers, side-eying him mischievously.

After sprawling out on the living room floor to watch one of Keith’s favorite movies and eat their Big Macs and fries, Shiro pushes himself up and practically bounces into the kitchen. He comes back with an elegant cake far too big for just the two of them, the candles already lit and melting.

There are only eight of them, arranged like a smiley face. “I did the best I could,” Shiro apologizes.

“Cute.”

Keith props his elbows on his knees and hides his stupidly endeared smile behind his palm as Shiro sings him happy birthday. His voice is, like the rest of him, some kind of angelic perfection. Once Shiro finishes, he summons a deep breath and blows the little flames out.

They sputter back into existence a moment after.

“Trick candles,” Keith notes before licking his fingers and pinching out each one. He can see Shiro’s petulant pout by the dimming candlelight. “What?”

“Not very fun of you. I thought you’d at least try twice.”

“Saving my energy for blowing other things,” he says as he licks one of the candles clean of frosting and sets it on his burger wrapper with the rest. It’s cream cheese frosting flecked with chili, sweet and faintly spicy.

Shiro makes an interested sound and says, “Your birthday, your call.”

The slices he cuts are generous. The cake itself is rich chocolate, fudgy and absolutely delicious, caramel ribboned throughout and the icing sweetly spiced. Keith thinks he could eat it every week for the rest of his life without tiring of the taste.

“What did you wish for?” Shiro asks while he picks at his slice. He’s scraped off most of the frosting— a habit Keith’s used to by now, already reaching over to scoop it up and transfer it to his own plate. 

Keith chews, not sure what to say. _You_ is a lot to throw at Shiro, even for whatever they are and everything they do together. It’s a little bit too heart-bearing, because for all he knows Shiro has no intentions of ever leaving Sendak. And diving with both feet into a full-fledged romance is asking a lot from a man he’s only known five months. Keith’s afraid enough of losing Shiro as it is.

“I just wish I could offer you a life like this, too,” is what burbles out of him, and even that feels like an admission of too much. Damning, possibly. After setting aside his plate, Keith draws his legs up and wraps his arms around them, curling in tight and defensive, face hidden behind his knees. Because there’s nothing he can give Shiro that Sendak can’t, except for himself. 

He can feel Shiro’s warmth as he slides closer, rustling the fancy gift bag sitting nearby. When Keith eventually lifts his head, he finds Shiro next to him, mimicking his posture. “You know, Keith, at the risk of sounding really, really ungrateful, this isn’t the life I was looking for.”

Keith stares at him, eyebrows rising up slow.

“Here, look.” Shiro pulls the ring off of his finger and holds it up for Keith’s examination— like he hasn’t been eyeing it for months, taking note of the platinum and carats worth of diamonds. “This thing is worth like forty-thousand dollars. Can you believe that?”

“Sounds about right,” Keith sighs, frowning at the sparkling glint off of every gem.

“And it’s about all I’d get in the divorce,” Shiro adds as he slips it back onto his finger and admires it, “if Sendak finds out I’ve been unfaithful.”

Keith’s heart lurches unpleasantly. “Really? H-how…”

“The prenup his lawyer gave me to sign wasn’t exactly for my benefit, but I was dumb and smitten. Didn’t even notice the infidelity clause only applied to me. Not that it really matters— faithful or not, in the event of a divorce I get a pretty raw deal regardless.”

“That’s… so shitty,” Keith says, fists clenching tight.

Shiro shrugs. “It’s served its purpose. Even with our actual relationship in shambles, the financial security Sendak gives me always outweighed leaving. Figured I’d hang around and take advantage of it until he eventually got bored enough to divorce me himself.”

Keith’s jaw drops a fraction. 

“Shit,” Shiro quickly adds upon seeing his expression, rubbing at his eyes, “that sounds awful. I’m awful.” 

“Don’t say that. You’re the furthest thing from awful,” Keith says while carding his fingers back through sleek grey hair, smiling when it makes Shiro’s mouth quirk at one corner. “You’re everything amazing, Shiro, inside and out. That’s exactly why I never understood how you ended up with someone like Sendak in the first place. Was he _always_ garbage, or…?” 

“No, no. I don’t know. My memories aren’t the most… unaffected.” Shiro’s hands clasp loose together as he stares at the idling screen on the TV, the movie credits long since finished rolling. “The best way I can explain it is… well, I’d broken up with my highschool sweetheart just a few months earlier. Then I had my accident and spent three months in the hospital, in and out of surgeries, feeling like shit. And even after I got released, it took me a while to get a prosthetic. Then there’s hospital bills and all my raw scars and…”

Shiro sighs. “I first ran into Sendak outside of this rehabilitation group therapy thing for recent amputees. He called me beautiful and asked me out on the spot, and I— fuck, it was just so nice to hear. I felt halfway normal again, you know? _Better_ than normal, because he’d take me to these ritzy places, treat me to nice clothes and jewelry. Even hooked me up with better doctors and a better prosthesis. I was in a pretty low, vulnerable place and he picked me up. Made me feel safe. Adored.”

“We’d only been going out a few months when he bought me this ring. One short engagement later and…” Shiro sticks out an arm and gestures around him. “It was a whirlwind. Whirlwind’s all but died out, though. Can’t remember the last time we even talked for more than five minutes.”

“You really think he’s going to leave you?” Keith asks after a moment. His mind turns it over like a puzzle that’s impossible to complete— having Shiro and losing him is a tragic thought, but willingly giving him up? Putting him aside? He can’t fathom it.

“Oh, absolutely. Haxxus was a fling but whatever he’s got going on with his new assistant certainly isn’t,” he mutters as he sips from the McDonald’s cup he’d refilled with champagne. “It’s only a matter of time before Hepta gets tired of being kept in the Hamptons townhouse and starts pestering Sendak to oust me. And that’s fine. I’m not going to cry about it.”

Keith sits quiet while Shiro drinks deep before setting his paper cup on the coffee table, wondering if he’s ruined tonight by prying deep into Shiro’s past and circumstances. “Sorry for making you talk about all this.” 

“You didn’t,” Shiro says, shaking his head. “I’d have told you eventually, Keith. I was just a little worried what you’d think of me. I know I’m not exactly mister moral high ground here, but really… I’m not like, hunting for another rich man to keep me, I promise.”

Keith’s cheeks sear. “Shit, s-sorry. I wasn’t trying to say—”

“No, no, I know,” Shiro hurries to interrupt. “I just don’t want you to feel like this is what you’re competing with. Nothing like that at all, Keith. You’re— if anything, you’re too good for me, okay?” 

“Pfft, not possible,” Keith says as he angles himself toward Shiro and wraps around his broader form in a clingy hug. It’s the kind of touch Shiro craves, as much as he might seem collected and self-sufficient to an outsider’s eye, and he leans heavy into Keith’s embrace. 

“You deserve better than skulking around all the time,” Shiro says, head flopping onto his shoulder. His sigh tickles at Keith’s throat. “I _really_ like you Keith and I’m— it’s— it makes me wish I wasn’t still wading through the wreckage of a pretty disastrous romantic history. I want to be optimistic about this. And I don’t want to fuck it up. I don’t want to be without you.”

Keith knows the feeling. He tells Shiro as much, and then assures him he doesn’t mind taking their next steps slowly— heartbreak’s made Shiro hesitant, even for what he wants. “But I’d like to spend more time with you like today,” Keith tells him. “Out and about. If we could swing it.” 

He can feel the sudden spread of Shiro’s smile against his neck and the little murmur of agreement that follows, nuzzled into his skin. “I’d love that. Today was one of the best days I’ve had in years. And you really blew me away out there.” 

Keith glows inside-out at the praise, red-cheeked and proud.

“I could take _you_ out next time,” he suggests. Heartened by Shiro’s interested little hum, Keith starts raking his mind for ways to treat him. Sendak takes enough long trips that they could probably get away for a weekend. “The hiking around here is nice in fall. Or camping, if you’re up for it.” 

“As long as you’re around to keep me from getting lost. And cold. And scared.” After being reassured that Keith would protect, warm, and spoon him through the creepiest of woodland nights, Shiro stretches out a leg to subtly nudge the bag with Keith’s birthday present toward him.

It has a designer name printed on the side, which he doesn’t recognize at a glance, and an absolute explosion of red tissue paper jutting from its top. Keith is no gift-wrapping expert, but it seems like Shiro used two or three times as much paper filling as he should’ve.

He rifles through until he feels something smooth and soft within, sleek under his hands. He draws it out and finds a leather riding jacket not unlike Shiro’s, although this one is cut a little differently and lined in crimson silk that shows around the collar. As Keith shrugs off his hoodie and slips it on instead, he luxuriates in the heavy smell of high-quality leather and Shiro’s borderline smug look of approval.

“In hindsight, I should’ve given it to you when we were on the track,” Shiro says, voice soft and faintly uncertain, “but I was saving it for after the cake.”

“Nah, now is perfect,” Keith says as he kisses Shiro full on the mouth, tasting the champagne and chocolate that still linger. “I love it.”

It’s hard not to say he loves _him_ , too, especially when Shiro is handsome and aglow and staring at Keith like _he’s_ the one who just granted him a wildly indulgent gift.

“You’re, uh, welcome to come to my family’s party on Saturday, too. If you want,” Keith offers. He’s nervous about asking, as though word’ll somehow get back to Sendak that Shiro hung out in the backyard of his mom’s house. “It’s just gonna be steak dinner and cake, so nothing fancy. And we’re having a pumpkin carving contest afterward. You and I could be a team.”

Cloudy-grey eyes brighten in surprise, and for a moment Shiro just stares at him, lips parted.

“That sounds like a great time,” he says a second later, biting his bottom lip through a grin. His expression falls into something blushingly pleased, delighted at being wanted. “But I feel like I should warn you that I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I’d just be a hindrance.”

“That’s okay, Shiro.” Keith cups his face and runs his thumbs over gorgeous cheekbones, still pink and warm under his touch. “You can scoop out the pumpkin guts while I sketch the design.”

“Oh, good,” Shiro laughs. “You know what? I’m looking forward to it. And I guess I’ll have to pick you up another gift so I don’t show up empty-handed…” 

“You don’t _have_ to,” Keith protests, but it’s weak. It’s Sendak’s money being spent, after all, and it’s out of Shiro’s affection. And as much as he wants to take care of Shiro, Keith can’t deny how good it feels to be spoiled in turn— especially when Shiro draws his hand up and lightly kisses his knuckles, the curl of a slow, fond smile on his lips. 

“A pair of new riding gloves, maybe, to match.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty so much to shirofenty for enabling me with the dream AU!!
> 
>  
> 
> If it makes anyone happy, here's the Good end I picture for this:
> 
> Shiro eventually leaves Sendak, taking all his shit with him as he runs off with Keith.  
> The move in with Krolia while Shiro finds a job and Keith goes back to school (loan-free thanks to Shiro selling off a bunch of his jewelry, including the ring.) They couldn't be happier, except for when they get a dog together and eventually move into their own little house where Keith gets to be the handyman and impress Shiro with his carpentry skills.
> 
> And in the interest of Sendak not being 100% a dick, he goes out of his way to make the divorce painless and ensures Shiro gets more than he's legally entitled to, even while knowing more than he lets on about his husband's thing with the pool boy. He does however continue to act like a grade A asshole to remain on brand.


End file.
